


staked out on a mission (to find our inner peace)

by earnmysong



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnmysong/pseuds/earnmysong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“If you say we’re not involved, I won’t be responsible for what I do after that sentence leaves your mouth.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	staked out on a mission (to find our inner peace)

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to take place at some point after 3x02, so I’m getting it in just under the wire.

\----

“We have to take polygraphs.” Sloan deliberately keeps her voice light, _this is not a problem_ the underlying theme she’s trying to embed in both her psyche and the overall situation. In theory, it’s an excellent coping mechanism; it would be much the same in practice, except for the fact that her body has apparently taken affront to this deceit and the truth has decided to manifest itself physically. Which is to say: the hand holding her nearly full glass of wine emphasizes _polygraph_ to such an extent that Don has to abandon his dismantling of their pyramid of Wo Hop leftovers and practically pin her to her seat on the countertop to avoid disaster.

“You good?” He keeps his palms tight against her pretzeled legs until she gives him the okay to let go with a nod. “Polygraphs, huh? It would appear the pursuit of justice has come to a standstill.” Turning back to the refrigerator, he grabs their collection of duck sauce packets off the door.

“If that’s what this course of action says to you, go with it. I, however, am seriously considering relocating to Tahiti for the foreseeable future.” She hops down, reaching across him to reclaim her drink. “They have a ‘no extradition’ law, right? Or is that the Caymans? Either way, I’m going to avoid prison while I let the southern wind sing me an island lullaby.”

“Is an eggroll enough to make you stop using country lyrics to add color to the conversation?” He passes her one before she can answer. “It’s more than a little disconcerting.” Putting an arm around her in reassurance, he adds, “Relax. They’re grasping at straws.”

She bites off an end of her eggroll, swallowing enough that she can intelligibly tell him, “Even if that’s true, I’m pretty sure this is a solid straw. They’re not skipping anyone, either.” There’s a beat she spends staring intently at her thumbnail. “I asked.”

“We’re not in—”

“If you say we’re not involved, I won’t be responsible for what I do after that sentence leaves your mouth.” She takes four of the containers in front of her over to the table in an effort to give her hands an activity other than throttling him. When that’s done, she takes a deep breath, steeling herself to respond as rationally as possible. “Are you kidding me, Don? We’re all involved! I just told you there aren’t any passes!”

It’s Don’s turn to let out an exasperated rush of air; despite this, he holds up his hands as he sits down, a silent _I come in peace_. “I mean, ‘we’re not involved’ as in we know very little about this whole thing and, therefore, there’s absolutely no way they’re going to find Neal through us. Will? Maybe. But not us.”

“Neal’s only the tip of the iceberg.” He shoots a reproachful look across to her, complete with raised eyebrows and a pointed clearing of the throat, so she backtracks, “Fine. Saving Neal’s bacon is the goal here. It’s just. I volunteer far more information than is strictly necessary when I’m under duress or experiencing a spike in stress levels.”

He laughs. “I know. We have been spending a lot of time together recently, you’ll remember? The buffet last week is only one of a vast number of similar occasions.” He’s quiet after this, finger tapping his chin as he puzzles through the dilemma at hand. Finally, he offers, “I can write you out a script to follow?”

“That’s very much appreciated and it’ll be a great backup plan,” she says to both him and the plate she’s filling with mushu pork and orange chicken.

“The main being?” 

“Vipassana.” She shrugs, like it’s the most logical response in the world.

(He spends the rest of the evening torn between wanting to see if she can pull it off and knowing he should warn her not to defraud the higher powers of the United States. He’s fairly sure that this’ll get her in more trouble than whatever information about herself or others she’s afraid to divulge.)

\----

“I honestly thought you were exaggerating,” Don tries to whisper when they walk into the bullpen to find it filled with ominous machines; the people completing the scene are several ranks above that on the scale of menacing adjectives.

Sloan aims an inconspicuous punch at whichever part of him is nearest to her to get him not to say anything else at his current volume, drags him into a corner underneath the stairs. “I may get emotional about almost everything, but I never exaggerate. The differences between the two are many and varied. Remind me to come back to this later,” she finishes hurriedly, just as a suited agent walks in front of where they’re standing.

“If you announce you’re doing vipassana, one of the idiots here, most likely Gary in a stellar repeat performance, will fuck it up by asking you when you went all new-agey or something.” She nods, not finding any flaws in Don’s logic.

“Laryngitis it is then!” She claps her hands together like she’s breaking a huddle and he only has a second to wonder when he agreed to this before he’s running to catch up with her. 

“Wait.” He closes the last few feet separating them, swings his body in front of hers, blocking her way. “Not talking will be seen as an admission of guilt, because that’s how our lives work – our luck is shit, let’s be honest – and I’ll have to take the world’s worst road trip to Virginia to get your ass out of federal lock-up.”

“You’d bail me out?” She stares at him in a way that suggests she no longer knows which end is up.

He can only gape in the face of her question, finally erupting, “Federal lock-up, Sloan! Federal. Lock-up.” He nods between his punctuation of these last two words in an attempt to share his understanding with the gesture. 

“Don’t have a stroke. I heard everything.” She pats his shoulder consolingly. “How about this? I’ll try my way and, if things start to look bleak, I’ll shift to yours.” When this declaration comes to an end, she hooks her pinky around his. “Swear.” 

\----

While Don will never admit it to anyone, he’s on the edge of his seat the entire time Sloan’s in the conference room the FBI has commandeered for the duration of its stay.

(She’d volunteered to take the first slot, her hand shooting into the air with lightning speed; a recent addition to the group would’ve thought she was accepting an offer to do a segment on The Tonight Show instead of assenting to an interrogation.)

Sloan emerges after ten minutes with half of a black and white cookie and a wide smile. He doesn’t wait for her to come to him, walks in toward her instead. “What’s the verdict?” Her expression may be giving away the answer, but he has to ask. (How could he not?)

“Turns out, although I’m used to being alone, the same cannot be said of awkward silence. Silence when it’s just me is a given, obviously. Silence between two or more people when the situation doesn’t warrant it? That’s unnatural.” She pauses until he gestures for her to continue. “In case you didn’t notice, that was an illustration of my point.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that.”

“Given this discovery, I nixed the laryngitis. They didn’t even make it past the baseline questions, though,” she laughs.

“It took you ten minutes to state your name and where you reside?” Disbelief tinges his tone.

She shakes her head. “That time was spent in a number of pursuits, to include: detailing my great-grandparents’ entrance into this country through Ellis Island, an extensive account of my propensity for awkwardness, both in childhood and presently, my preliminary syllabi for next semester, and a timeline of our acquaintance.”

The longer Sloan talks, the more color Don’s face loses. He clears his throat with a “They wanted to know about all of that? Jesus.”

Noticing the toll her account is taking on him, she assures, “No, they kept it basic. I just chose to expound a bit.” She walks past him, heading in the direction of her office, spins around to inform him, “They said I was an open book and, if I had even an inkling of where Neal is, I would’ve let it slip while I was with them.” She starts the climb up to the balcony; he’s close behind. “They probably got tired of listening to my word-vomit, something I take to mean I can declare unequivocal victory.”

“I’d say it’s well-deserved. What do you say we use your unparalleled evasion skills to elude the government lackies in favor of Pommes Frites?”

“That would be perfection,” she confirms, as he signals for her to go ahead of him as they retrace their steps from minutes before.

(They’ll be back on high alert in a few hours but, for now, they’ll enjoy the break and each other’s company.)


End file.
